Midsummer Blessings
by Amrei
Summary: It's Midsummer and Belle is determined to get a little bit of its magic for herself. Rumplestiltskin on the other hand truly doesn't care for it, but he still can't elude it completely - neither in this world nor any other.
1. The Dark Castle

My entry for the second round of the Rumbelle Showdown 2015.

 **Prompts:** Belle collects something, flower crown, against the glass

* * *

Even though Belle loved the smell of old paper and the fanciful notion of being able to hear the old tomes whispering their tales if she only listened a little harder, it weren't the books itself she loved so much. No, what she really craved was the knowledge trapped between their sites, the worlds they painted with no more than a few strokes of ink on parchment.

As a lady people had had very clear notions about what she should or shouldn't be exposed to and her curious nature had clashed only too often with the tight bounds of what her governess called 'propriety' and Belle named 'absolutely unnecessary'.

There truly weren't many ways of occupation fit for a maiden of noble birth, but luckily reading was, while not exactly the preferred option if one asked her governess, at least acceptable and so Belle learned early on to quench her thirst for the knowledge denied to her because of her sex by collecting all the curious facts she could find in the depth of the castle's library.

Belle collected knowledge like other people collected trinkets and as such she was quite disappointed when her books failed her in this quest.

Disgruntled, Belle closed yet another book that had only held the barest mention of midsummer, slowly ready to admit defeat. In her whole library there was not a single text that described the customs of the midsummer celebration more than just in passing. With a deep sigh Belle sat her latest book back into its place on the nearest bookshelf. Back home the clerics had forbidden all festivities on this 'heathen feast' a good while before her birth. Of course such vehement demonization had only sparked the young girl's curiosity, but all books there might have been on that topic had already been banished and the only reason Belle hadn't gone mad from curiosity had been that her nurse had finally taken pity on her and had traded her the description of a midsummer's custom for the girl's promise of not asking about it again, lest she got herself into trouble with the clerics.

Old Yvette's explanation had not truly explained much about the holiday, but Belle had still snuck out into the gardens that midsummer's eve to pick a bouquet of flowers. When she put it under her pillow she had felt quite foolish and when she woke up the next morning recalling no more of her dream than a pair of big brown eyes, she had had to laugh about herself. A pair of eyes, no matter how soulful, were really not enough to identify a husband, and if in the old days maidens had truly believed in this customs, she supposed that it hadn't been too hard to find someone fitting the criteria.

Still, the fact that one custom was nothing but superstition didn't change the fact that midsummer had been a day of great importance back in the day and she had had great hope for finding a better explanation in Rumplestiltskin's library, who surely had no qualms about any 'profane rites'. Alas, the best clue she had come up with was an illustration in a book about flowers depicting a few girls wearing flower wreaths and a vague caption explaining that in celebration of midsummer young girls wove flower crowns for their hair in the hope that they should grant them 'special favours' for as long as the summer lasted, whatever that meant.

That wasn't exactly much better than the flowers which had been supposed to show her her future husband, but it was the only thing she had found in her search and Belle was practical enough to be content with what she had. Earlier that day she had picked some flowers in order to brighten up the room and if that was the only way she knew to celebrate midsummer's eve, she would try if she couldn't make a wreath out of her bouquet.

Half an hour later had her struggling with the now notably dishevelled flowers, their vase securely held underneath between her knees – a precaution she had decided upon after she had had to pick up the flowers one time too many from the floor. At least this way they fell right into the vase if her tries failed once gain. For a moment she thought she saw a shadow reflected in the glass, brown eyes, and she whirled around in her seat, as she lost her grip on the vase….

ooo

It certainly was not as if Rumplestiltskin missed his little maid when she was not around. He could do well enough without her presence, all constant prattling, and soft smiles- _**No**_ , he did not miss her, but what he _ **did**_ miss was his daily cup of tea, so when she had failed to show up at the usual time, he just had to look for her. Couldn't make a habit of letting her run loose after all…

He wasn't exactly surprised when he found her in the library, seated in one of the tall chairs in front of the fireplace and crouched over what he could only assume was the book responsible for his cancelled teatime. With a crooked grin Rumplestiltskin stalked over to his unsuspecting maid. Now, that he was already late for tea, he could take the time to teach her a lesson concerning why exactly it was a bad idea to make him wait for her – well, for her to bring him his tea.

He bent down behind her, his lips only centimetres from her ear, when he halted a little confused, seeing that she wasn't bend in concentration over a book, but a handful of flowers, which seemed to originate from the desk in the centre of the room, seeing that the vase, which usually stood there, was clamped between her knees and he really shouldn't concentrate further on _**that**_ point.

Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth to speak, suddenly not sure anymore what he had wanted to say, when Belle finally took notice of his presence and jerked around so abruptly that she lost her grip on the glass. His hand shot forward saving the vase from crashing to the floor a moment before her own fingers did.

"What exactly are you on about, dearie?" He finally asked, carefully ignoring the feeling of her soft hands pressing his own against the cool glass. He didn't quite manage. "You were supposed to bring me my tea a good hour ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry", she said, unabashed as always, "but this", she inclined to the mess of flowers that had landed in her lap during her little mishap. "just didn't want to work."

"And what exactly is that supposed to be?"

"A flower wreath", Belle replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and Rumplestiltskin couldn't help but laugh out loud. "To me this looks more like something from the bottom of my cauldron. Give it to me", he demanded imperiously, while sitting down on the chair opposite of her. "And if I may ask, whatever for does my little maid need a flower crown?" he asked in his best sing song voice, as he started to braid the small steams together with his clever spinner hands.

"It was the only way I could find to celebrate midsummer. Back home it was forbidden and I hoped to find more about it in the library, but…" She shrugged. "There was nothing."

"Ah, it really already is midsummer again, isn't it?" He sneered. "A day for peasants and charlatans only, I fear. Nothing of interest for one such as you". But his hands on the flowers slowed as memories of long ago forced their way to the forefront of his mind, of another dark haired beauty for whom he had woven flower crowns, of laughing and dancing around the bonfire by her side, before they made their very own plea for fertile ground in the shadows, away from the other revellers…

He shook his head as if that was ever enough to chase away the memories, but Belle looked at him with wide blue eyes, pleading for him to elaborate and he couldn't find it in him to disappoint her.

"Simply speaking it is the longest day of the year and people being people take it as an occasion to perform cheap parlour tricks, and ask for blessings of fertility for their land. Nothing of importance I fear. Here" He took the wreath and set it on top of her luminous curls. "May all the blessings there might be in this sham come over you, dear." He spoke quietly, his fingers still lingering on her hair.

He was so close that he would only have to lean in the littlest bit more in order to cover her sweet lips with his own and- Rumplestiltskin stood up abruptly. "I'll just…" He didn't even finish the sentence before he leapt up, fleeing the room like the coward he was.


	2. Storybrooke

In the stifling confines of the curse he is nothing but the cold landlord and she no more than a kind shop girl, but some connections just can't be cut off completely.

* * *

Sweat ran down his neck. It pooled in his shirt collar, collecting, before it slowly trickled down his back, making his shirt cling to his skin in a sticky mess. He tried hard not to shudder in disdain as he walked down the smouldering expanse of Main Street, but he couldn't stop himself from both being glad for and cursing his heavy black suit jacket. On the one hand the thick tissue hid his deplorable state, on the other hand it didn't exactly help matters.

Mr Gold was the town monster, the éminence grise in this lousy town in the middle-of-nowhere-Main, the one person everyone feared – but even he wasn't immune to the burning midday sun. It might have surprised some of his tenants, but underneath his customized suit he was a man of flesh and bone with all the small discomforts that came with it.

Still, the discomfort was more than worth it, as he reached the glass front of the shop and saw her and for a moment he forgot all about the stifling heat, his throbbing ankle and the fact that he still hadn't been able to find Mr. Shoeman and make the man understand what exactly 'on time' meant when it came to rent owed to him. For a moment all he could think about were tumbling brown curls and sparkling blue eyes, usually fixed on a book and only all too rarely on him.

It was only a moment before he had himself in check again, the usual coldly polite façade back in place, and finally entered the shop. It was only barely colder inside than out on the street. Not enough money for the A/C he supposed and wondered how exactly Moe French thought he'd be able to keep his shop afloat, when he couldn't even ensure that the plants didn't wither from heat in his shop. Well, as he knew Moe French he probably didn't think at all and Mr. Gold barely held back the derisive sneer that tried to force its way to his face at that thought.

The man in question was out as usual, when he knew that he'd be around to collect rent or his daily bouquet of half withered flowers. It was barely worth the money he paid for it, but if he was honest to himself – and Mr. Gold was a man who prided himself on his honesty, or more exactly his ability to never tell an outright lie and still make the rest of town dance to his tune – there was a reason he gave Mr. French a chance to elude him by always visiting the flower shop at exactly the same time and why he still considered the money he spent on the pitiable flowers well spent and the reasons was sitting right before him.

Rosie didn't immediately notice him when he stepped over to the counter, still all too captured by the book she was bending over, one hand idly playing with her hair, and he had to clear his throat, before she looked up to him with smiling eyes. Rosie always had a smile for him, not that he knew how exactly he deserved that. Sunny creature that she was, she probably looked at everyone this way, but the thought didn't keep his heart from clenching at the sight of her smile – it never did.

It was really quite pathetic, even if he weren't quite so old and she not quite such a beauty. But as the facts stood she was certainly so beautiful and he exactly so old – old enough to be her father at least and for sure far too old for such silly notions.

In his defence she didn't make it easy for him not to pin after her, when she was always so genuinely kind to him. They always talked when he saw her in the dusty flower shop, and she was so completely unafraid of him when they discussed anything and everything, but most often books – those he had read and those that captured her right then.

He yearned for Rosie in the sweltering heat of that summer day, her soft smiles and her animated discussions, more than he could have imagined before and for a moment he thnought about acting on it, to simply ask her to have dinner with him, but it was only a moment, before his courage left him and his tongue was heavy as he uncertainly laid a hand on the glass counter.

ooo

Rosie French looked up from her book, when she heard someone clear his throat, but she knew who it was even before that. At exactly 2 o'clock every day Mr. Gold came to their shop in order to get the days's bouquet. She wasn't exactly sure why he came in his midday break, when he had told her once that the flowers were for his house, but she supposed he closed his shop after they left the flower shop, so maybe that was a reason, or he simply didn't care for coming at a time when they had more customers – not that they had all that much at any time of the day.

Despite the weather he looked just as immaculate as always as he stood on the other side of the counter while he waited for her to get his flowers, though maybe with a little more colour than usual. Personally Rosie thought a new bouquet every day was an absolute waste, but when she had thought so out loud in her father's presence one day, he'd shushed her quickly enough. Times were hard on them and the more money Mr. Gold left with them, the easier it would be for them to pay him rent.

"Please wait a moment and I'll get your bouquet".

"Of course, Miss French." His voice sounded a little rough and she gave him a bright smile, before she got up from her stool and ducked into the small backroom. No one else ever called her 'Miss French', she was Rosie to the whole town, and 'my little flower' to her dad and somehow the formal address made her stomach do strange things when Mr. Gold used it, no matter that he addressed everyone by their last names. Somehow it made her feel as if he took her seriously.

It was one of the reasons why she always took special care in choosing and arranging his order. Years ago, only a little while after she had started to help out in the shop and took over his orders – her father preferring to be anywhere but in the shop, when their landlord came around – Mr. Gold had told her that he trusted her taste enough for her to choose the details of his bouquets and that confession still made her prouder than it should have any right to.

Today's choice were red carnations and Rosie felt herself blush, as she carried the flowers back to the main room, when she remembered what she and Ruby had talked about just the day before. Today was midsummer and Ruby had seen something about an old custom to collect flowers and put them under one's pillow in order to see who one'd end up with on TV – or, as she'd said with a wink, at least who'd next end up on the pillow.

Her friend had thought it all a great fun and had asked her what sort of flowers she as an expert would recommend in order to snatch an especially good looking specismen.

Mr. Gold looked at her oddly, as she turned bright red once more and Rosie looked down at the flowers in her hands in mortification, as she suddenly remembered the brown eyes she'd inevitably thought of when Ruby had brought the topic up. Suddenly she was very glad of the glass counter between them. Somehow right then he seemed both much too close and much too far away at the same time…

She felt as if she should say something more, but she didn't quite know what, just as she always faltered once she tried to put into words the strange feelings that made her so unsure around him and so she only smiled at him one last time and said her goodbyes.

"Until tomorrow, Mr. Gold."

"Until tomorrow, Miss French", he answered in turn and her stomach clenched with the want to say something else, to keep him - the most interesting person in town, the one person who didn't mind her talking about books and adventures, who genuinely seemed to enjoy hearing about even her most fantastic dreams and who didn't look at her as yet another girl in a dead-end job without perspectives- talking to her, but she didn't quite have the courage – just as she never had.

That night she dreamed of strange reptilian eyes and when she woke up she felt strangely bereft, when she realised that she had only dreamed nonsense despite the flowers under her pillow.


End file.
